Checking the time on my phone, I realized I only had thirty minutes to make it to my favorite Italian spot—Giovanni’s Table—to pick up tonight’s dinner.
“Aye, Liz, can I just sign my receipt to authorize the charge for my order? I’ll have Amber pick it up in the morning.”
“Sure thing, Dr. St. James,” Liz, the store manager, said.
As I walked up to the register, I could hear the teeth sucking and feel the stares of the people who didn’t have VIP status and had no choice but to wait in line. I dropped no less than three racks every time I popped in—and I popped in often. I damn well better have some kind of seniority.
After signing and grabbing my copy of the receipt, I dashed out the door—only to be abruptly halted when I slammed into what felt like a brick wall. The impact sent me straight on my ass.
“Hey, dummy, watch where the fu—”
The words froze in my throat when a strong arm reached out to pull me up.
I stood there, stunned, staring into the most beautiful hazel eyes I’d ever seen—set in a chocolate, bearded face carved like it belonged in a gallery.
“Are you okay?” His deep voice rumbled, smooth as velvet. Then he smirked, flashing perfect white teeth. “And my mama didn’t name me Dummy. I’m Hunter.”
Mahasin St. James
(1 year later…)
“You look so beautiful on your knees for me, Mahasin. Gag on this dick, make room for your king, baby.”
Doing as I was told, I deep-throated Hunter, warm tears slid down my face from the pressure. I relaxed my throat and, since I was a no-hands type of woman, I grabbed one of his hands and guided it to the back of my head. Between the insane amount ofspit in my mouth and Hunter’s thick, chocolate-velvet length, I managed to hum out…
“Dominate me, King.”
As an only child, I was raised to take up space. I dominated every arena I stepped into—from classrooms to boardrooms—you heard me, felt me, soaked in my presence. I was a winner, with my only competition being my reflection. But in the bedroom? I submitted. If I were bad, spank me. If I talked out of turn, stuff my mouth with your dick until my eyes rolled back, and snot ran down my nose. I needed my man to know that even though I was a boss in the streets, in his castle, I belonged to him.
Hunter picked up the pace, guiding my head while his hips thrust deeper. Looking up at him, nostrils flared, his head tilted back, and he bit down on his bottom lip like it owed him something. His ass was under my spell, and the power in that only made my pussy wetter.
“Dr. St. James… baby, you're insatiable. The best a nigga ever had. Who do you belong to, baby?”
But I wasn’t the type to say it; I showed it. I knocked his hand away and sped up, bobbing faster, slurping loudly, messily, greedily. Without breaking rhythm, I stroked his length with both hands, spit slicking everything down, and massaged his balls until he groaned—a sound so primal it probably set off the motion sensors in our penthouse.
He released his legacy down my throat, and like the good girl I was, I swallowed every drop, licking him clean of any residual.
“Good girl,” he growled. “Revive me, baby.”
That was my command to kiss him. I did as I was told, getting off my knees and pushing up onto my feet, I crashed my lips against his. Kissing Hunter was always an experience. It felt like I was pouring every part of myself into him—like I was willingly draining my soul, giving my last breath if he needed it.
“Breathe your strength into me until I’m overflowing with you,” he ordered.
I kissed him harder, my subconscious slipping somewhere between space and time. His grip on my ass was so rough I knew it would leave a bruise. Picking me up, he walked over and laid me down in front of the fireplace. The crackling flames and the rich, smoky scent of burnt maple made this Valentine’s Day morning even more romantic. Here I was, making love to the man of my dreams in a two-story penthouse, finally living everything my heart ever desired. I’d kissed too many frogs, but I’d found my king.
Positioning himself at my flower, he parted my petals with his tongue and began to drink my nectar. He could never fully clean me—my body just produced more, and more, and more. His mouth closed around my clit, sucking until I opened wider and my hands locked on the back of his head. I rolled my hips against his pretty mouth.
“Oh fuck, Hunter!” I screamed as release took me.
I kept grinding through the waves, smearing my honey across his lips and beard. He leaned over me and kissed me passionately, letting me taste myself—something that felt intoxicating and forbidden all at once. Slowly, he broke the kiss, buried his face in my neck, and began to suck hard and slow. Ecstasy rippled through me, another orgasm building just from his lips on my skin.
Then reality cut in. My eyes flicked to the antique Tiffany’s clock on the coffee table.
“Shit, Hunter, baby, stop. I’m running late—I have to get to the hospital for a scheduled cesarean.”
“Don’t take what gives me life away from me, baby,” he whispered into my neck.
I didn’t want to. But the health and safety of my patients came first. Childbirth was the closest a woman came to deathwithout dying, and the maternal death rate for Black women was significantly higher than any other group. The least I could do was be on time.
